


Spring Cleaning

by vextant



Series: BuckyNat Week 2018 [2]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: #BuckyNat Week, Bucky has a potty mouth, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Frustration with systems of measurement, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vextant/pseuds/vextant
Summary: Just some safehouse maintenance fluff, featuring snappy dialogue and reupholstering advice.





	Spring Cleaning

**Author's Note:**

> For BuckyNat Week 2018: Domestic Tuesday.

Bucky sneezes, again, and can’t help the frustrated growl that escapes his throat. The inside of his nose feels raw. He rubs it with the back of his hand and sniffs. 

A cheerful but tone-deaf whistle fills the space behind him, announcing Natasha’s presence. He pretends not to notice her but another sneeze betrays him almost immediately. 

“Hush, James.”

“Stuff it, yourself,” he mutters, “At least I can carry a goddamn tune.”

“If the dust is bothering you, I can always finish on my own.” She says. They both knew that Natasha left to her own devices would take hours on purpose until some other poor soul got roped in, like Clint. Or Steve. Probably Clint, he was easiest to bribe.

“Maybe you should. Take care of your own fuckin’ safehouse for once.” He glares at her from where he stands on the kitchen counter in order to wipe the dust off of the cabinets. The water building up in his eyes probably isn’t doing him any favors.

Natasha shoots him a grin, the kind that makes him feel a little like a mouse in a trap. If he goes where her mind is headed then it was a guarantee that they’d never get the cleaning done. So, Bucky turns back around to resume his task. 

Another sneeze. He tenses, gripping the wood of the cabinet; it bows a little under his left hand as he feels yet another one creep up on him. In a desperate attempt to stop it, he plugs his nose, “A- ch! God _fucking_ dammit!”

“You’re useless up there anyway. Come here, I need you to sort this.” She jerks her thumb to the mountain of canned goods sitting on the only table in the small one-bedroom flat. He obediently climbs down, eager to get away from the dust, and wipes his hands on the rag he’d tucked into his back pocket. “Sort all of them,” Nastasha said clearly, “I’m not risking food poisoning again because somebody got lazy.”

“That was not my fault,” Bucky rolls his eyes, “Twelve-one, it said. December first.”

“January twelfth,” She retorts, “It’s day-month-year, James.”

“Fuck international dates,” He mutters mostly to himself, sniffling a little in an attempt to clear the dust still in his nose.

Natasha hops up to his place on the counter. Where he could see over the top easily, she balances on the balls of her feet to peer over the edge, “Just another system everyone else can grasp just fine.”

“It’s _Vancouver_ , not Nairobi.”

She doesn’t answer directly but she does turn her back to him, giving that little lilted “hmm” she does when the conversation is over. He doesn’t agree - not when he’s already gotten a head start on complaining.

“And about Celsius-”

“James, it’s been forty years.”

“Yeah, for _you_ , maybe-”

“James,” Natasha actually turns to face him, “One more word and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

They stare silently at each other for a moment, and he narrows his eyes because it feels like she’s fucking with him. Maybe. There’s a part of him that’s never sure.

He says slowly, “You don’t have a couch,” although there’s a very strong urge to glance over his shoulder and double-check. He won’t though, because that would mean she wins. 

“You heard me.”

Natasha turns away again but her eyes linger on him. He waits until she’s looked away entirely before risking a glance behind him. Two high-back chairs and a small bookshelf built out of wooden crates beside the door, a small kitsch cabinet used as a television stand. No couch. Ha.

“There was a bit of a mess,” She says in response to the question he didn’t ask, “Blood everywhere. Easier to get rid of the whole thing.”

“Could’ve just reupholstered it,” Bucky says, sorting the cans. Eight-eight, August eighth, that one’s easy, “Bleach the padding for the smell, put a plastic layer under the new fabric so it doesn’t happen again. Would’ve taken maybe two hours.”

“That’s a lot of work for a thrift store couch.”

“Makes more sense than throwing the whole thing out. Waste not, Natalia.”

“Next time I’m about to throw out cheap furniture, I’ll make sure you get a chance to resuscitate it.”

“Please. I’d appreciate having somewhere to sleep now that I’ve been banned from your bedroom.”

She’s apparently finished with the cabinets - that was too fast and it’s always suspicious when people finish cleaning too quickly, he’s gonna have to check it himself later - because she glides back down to the floor in a smooth jump. He looks up from his pile of cans to find her smiling fondly at him.

“Ass,” Natasha shakes her head and tosses her rag in the laundry pile. Yesterday the stack of linens and rags was overflowing the single basket, but they’ve managed to work it down to just another load or two.

“You love it.”

“I do, but the man attached?” She wiggles her hand, making a noncommittal ‘eh’.

“Fair enough,” he chuckles, “Why don’t you go unclog that shower drain you’ve been putting off because you’ve been waiting for me to get to it first?”

Instead, she sits on the kitchen table, right where he’d been working, and takes the pinto beans out of his hand, “Are you reading all of the labels? I don’t have all day.”

Bucky snatches the can back before she can put it in the wrong pile without looking, “Whassa matter? You got a hot date?”

“Something like that.” She starts sorting much quicker than he had been. He takes the opportunity to lean back in his chair and kick his feet up.

Natasha makes short work of it - before Bucky knows it the stock is divided into two neat and easily discernible piles. She slides back to her feet, glances down the hallway to the single bedroom, back at him to make sure he gets the message.

“C’mon, Tasha, we _just_ made the bed.” He’s definitely not opposed to it, but that train of thought means even more laundry (that they’ve already done once) and Bucky probably wrestling with the damned fitted sheet again while Natasha conveniently leaves him to make the bed by himself. Again.

She’s already halfway down the hallway even though he’s made no move to follow her. He can almost feel his strings being pulled when she strips off her shirt and glances over her shoulder with one perfect eyebrow raised. It’s one situation where he doesn’t really mind being manipulated.

“You’re right,” Bucky says, standing and discarding his own shirt as he makes his way behind her, “Let’s get to gettin’.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Celsius was widely adopted mid-70s, that's what Natasha's referencing with "it's been forty years".)
> 
> Brought to you by my own frustration of going back and forth between American/International systems of measurement and my wanting to use the phrase "let's get to gettin'" in this exact context.
> 
> Liked this fic? [Here's the tumblr post](https://vextant.tumblr.com/post/172064243486/spring-cleaning-vextant-multifandom-archive) for easy liking and/or reblogging, if you're so inclined.
> 
> Want a fill of your very own? You can always [prompt me](https://vextant.tumblr.com/ask)!


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